On Broken Wings
by devilishblacksheep
Summary: Warren has finally accepted the fact that he is a mutant. When an antimutant group kidnaps him, he is forced to face the consequences of that acceptance.
1. The Doctor and His Goons

**Summary: Warren has finally accepted the fact that he is a mutant. When an anti-mutant group kidnaps him, he is forced to face the consequences of that acceptance. **

**Again, I don't own any of the X-Men, even though Ashley took it upon herself to chain most of them up in her conveniently air-conditioned basement for "studying". Anyway, don't sue me. I'm not kidding. This means you.**

**I am painfully aware that the events in the following story never happened in the comic book. That is why this is a movie fic; I can make up whatever I want, so there. XP**

On Broken Wings

The young man woke up in a cell, with the worst headache he had ever felt. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was exactly. It was dark, and there was a lone window high up on the wall in front of him. Unfortunately, it looked too small for him to crawl through. He tried to stand up, but the chains attaching his wrists to the wall, coupled with the intense dizziness and general nausea he felt upon making the attempt prevented him from doing so. He slid down the wall to the ground, frustrated.

He tried to think back to the events that had led him to this situation, but it was fuzzy. He remembered leaving the school to go for a walk, but it had still been daylight. There were people…protesters? And a scuffle, but then it went dark and he couldn't remember anything else. So where the hell was he? And who had put him here, and why? All were good questions, but his headache prevented him from thinking too much; it hurt too much to think.

He tried to stretch out his wings, since they were getting cramped from being in the same position for what must have been hours. However, they seemed to be strapped to his back. Again. He sighed. Was there ever going to be a point in his life where they wouldn't have to be? He had been beginning to think so, but given his current situation, he had been mistaken.

Just as he found a comfortable position to sit in, the door to the room opened, and two big men walked in. They each looked like your typical goons; 6 feet tall, heavily muscled throwbacks to Neanderthals. They glared at him in concert, which would have made him laugh if the situation weren't so grave. Behind them was a thin man in a white lab coat who seemed to be the quintessential evil mastermind, complete with black goatee. He walked forward, stopping right in front of Warren and giving him a disgusted look. "So this is the newest 'X-Man?' Pathetic." Warren looked at the man in confusion. The man, who seemed pleased at Warren's response, continued. "I am Dr. Zarkov. And this," he gestured to the room behind him, "is the holding cell for the Laboratory for Mutant Research and Treatment. Our goal is much like that of Worthington Industries." He stopped, relishing the wince Warren made at hearing the name of his father's company. "Only here, our budget is not quite as substantial, and therefore our procedures are less…shall we say, advanced." Warren shuddered. He could only imagine what that meant.

"So, what do you want with me?" He asked, even though he really didn't want to know.

"What do you think we want with you? To treat you, of course. To help you."

Warren shook his head. He didn't want to be "treated." Maybe a few months ago he would have said differently, but he had come to terms with himself, and didn't want to change. Especially not if it involved any of this guy's treatments; he was getting the sneaking suspicion that they were not especially pleasant. "I don't want to be treated, and I don't need to be 'helped.' I'm fine. Now, can I go?" He knew it was useless; Zarkov obviously was going to do whatever he wanted, regardless of whether Warren wanted the "treatment" or not. But he vowed to protest every step of the way.

"No, you most certainly cannot go." Zarkov was beginning to get irritated. "I know those infantile X-Men have brainwashed you into thinking that being a mutant is okay. But it is a disease, and like any disease, it requires treatment. We are going to start treatment in a few minutes, with or without your consent, so you had better get used to it. I just assumed it would be considerate to inform you ahead of time. Apparently I was mistaken, if you are going to be rude." With that, he motioned the two goons to take positions to either of Warren's sides. They stood at attention, awaiting further orders.

Zarkov removed a knife from a medical table and approached Warren. "Now, are you going to behave, or am I going to have to make my friends subdue you?"

Warren glared at him, which only made Zarkov laugh. "What do you want me to do?" He asked, looking uncertainly at the knife in Zarkov's hand.

"Just lie on your stomach. I need to remove those…_things_ of yours before we can continue." Warren looked at him in shock. His _wings_? No, not with that scalpel, no way; he wouldn't allow it. But Zarkov was motioning for him to do it, and the goons looked at him threateningly. He began to turn around, lowering himself to the floor. This couldn't be happening; it was a dream, it had to be. He would wake up to find himself in his bed at the school, and would be laughing about it with Bobby and Peter before he knew it.

But Zarkov came closer, and brought the knife down to his left side, as if he really was going to start. And the goons came closer, ready to grab him if he started to struggle. And struggle he did, as Zarkov began to cut into the muscle connecting the wing to his shoulder blade. He yelled, and thrashed, and cried, trying to escape the man with the knife and the pain he was inflicting. The blood ran down his back and sides, collecting in puddles on the floor, reminding him of a time ten years ago when he had attempted this himself. But this time the person doing it knew exactly what he was doing, making precise cuts, removing his wings way more efficiently than he had.

The goons held him to the floor despite his attempts to get away; they were way stronger than he had anticipated. And after the first fifteen minutes, Warren had expended all his energy, and was exhausted, doing little more than laying there and trying to block out the pain. The goons still held him to the ground, although even they had to know there was no longer a need to. Warren's eyes were mere slits, and he was barely conscious from a combination of blood loss and a surplus of pain. He had managed to scream himself hoarse, and was beyond logical thought. He was breathing shallowly, and occasionally his eyes fluttered open, as if for some reason he was trying to remain conscious. Finally he gave up, and gave in to the black.


	2. Coping

**Sorry this one is short; I figured this part needed to be on its own. Part three should be up soon. Enjoy!**

He woke up a few hours later alone in the room. He looked around nervously, hoping that the scientist and his gorillas weren't somehow hiding in the dark. Satisfied that he was truly alone, he backed himself into a corner, discovering in the process that the chains securing him to the wall had been lengthened just enough for him to do so. He pressed himself into the wall, trying to make himself as small a target as he could, inadvertently rubbing his back against the rough surface of the concrete wall and reopening the wounds the doctor had inflicted. He hissed in pain, and reached one of his arms around to his back, with one touch affirming that the past few hours had not in fact been a dream. The twin gashes ran from his shoulder blades to his waist, exactly where his wings had formerly been attached. His shoulder blades still protruded from his back, as they had before, only now the skin covering them had been scraped clean of feathers, leaving them rough. There was dried blood all down his back; apparently the doctor didn't believe in post-op cleanup. The only obvious thing that marked him as a mutant was the feathers Zarkov had left on the back of his neck, like some sick joke. In frustration, Warren tore at them, pulling them out in clumps.

He sunk to the floor, completely defeated. Why him? Why now, after he had actually begun to accept the mutation? He strained at the chains, hoping that they would give. But, as he had expected, no luck. He sat back down, curled up into a ball, and hoped that the other X-Men would figure out where he was, since it was becoming increasingly obvious to him that there was no way he was going to get out of here on his own.

He slept, mainly because there was nothing better for him to do. Occasionally the doctor would come in and taunt him, or try to get Warren to tell him where the other mutants were. But somehow he managed to refuse every time, even when the consequences for staying silent became almost unbearable. He was covered in bruises and cuts, and by the time the X-Men finally found him, he was nearly unrecognizable as the cautious but charming young man that had shown up at the school looking for a place to stay.


	3. Going home

Wolverine entered the room first, refusing to let anyone past the doorway until he had made sure it was safe. When he determined it was, he waved everyone else in. The first thing he could smell was blood, a lot of it. And fear; the room reeked of it. The kid was definitely here, somewhere. He didn't know what to expect, but what he saw definitely wasn't it.

Warren was lying unconscious on the floor. He was covered in cuts and bruises, and his shirt had been removed, exposing the cuts that ran from his shoulder blades to his waist. These cuts had gotten infected, and consequently were oozing nasty yellow pus. Warren was shivering, although whether it was from fever or the low temperature of the room Logan couldn't tell. Storm immediately ran to the boy, trying to wake him, but wasn't being successful. Logan growled in frustration; whoever had done this, whoever was responsible for this debasement, was going to pay.

There was a groan from the floor, and he turned to see that Storm had gotten Warren to wake up. Thank God for small favors. However, the minute he opened his eyes and saw that there were people in the room, his blue eyes opened wide, and he immediately backed up as far as he could, staring at them in complete fear. He shook his head vigorously.

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_No. No more. Please._ He willed that they stayed where they were. Thankfully, they came no closer. "Warren, it's us. Come on."

No. It was a trick, it had to be. They would never find him, Zarkov had said so. Sure he dreamed about it still, the day they would come and rescue him, but as the days passed he had grown to believe that that day would never come. The doctor had said his hopes were baseless, that the lab was somewhere no one who didn't already know where it was could find it. And Warren had slowly begun to believe it. He stared at his friends, and through the thick fog of pain and fever that clouded his mind, he couldn't do anything other than cower in fear; this was some new trick, yet another part on his treatment where he would begin to have hope, only to have it dashed right in front of him. He curled up in a ball, wishing they would leave. _Go away. Just go away; it hurts too much._

"Warren, look at me." A new voice, this time from Kitty. "It's safe now. I don't know what they did to you, but it's okay; we've come to take you home."

_Home._ He could dimly remember home; a place where it was safe, where there was food. He hadn't eaten in days, and since his metabolism was so fast, it felt like it had been longer. He looked up, looking at the small group of people who were silently hoping that he would listen to them. He blinked a few times, then nodded slowly. _Want to go home._


	4. Intermission

**Hey all…I've got another chapter for this one, so if you want it let me know…reviews would be nice too; I don't know if anyone actually likes this one. It'd be nice to have some feedback. Thanks!**


	5. Flight

**Yay…I actually got reviews! "Ask and you shall receive"…I guess the guy was right. Lol. So, here is the next chapter…we're getting near the end (take that as you will). Thanks to everyone who reviewed…I probably would have put the next couple of chapters up regardless, but it's always good to hear that people are reading and enjoying. **

**I own nothing but the plot. Characters (except the evil guys, who are mine) belong to Stan Lee, and any mentions of the movies go to Brian Singer and Brett Rasner. **

Warren was unconscious the entire ride to the mansion. It was no wonder; he had lost a lot of blood when his wings were removed, and no effort had been made to replace it. No one even had the common courtesy to clean him up afterwards, which thoroughly disgusted Kitty, who was currently sitting in the back of the X-jet with him, trying to assess the damage. She had never been fond of blood, and the fact that Warren was covered in it wasn't making her like it any more.

Not only was there a river of dried blood from his shoulder blades to his waist, his hands were bloodstained, as if he had been trying to stop the flow on his own, and his blond hair had been tinted pink, probably from his habit of running his fingers through his hair when he was frustrated or nervous. The gashes that ran the length of his back were clean cuts; the people who had done this had surgical tools, and kept them in tiptop condition. They were still ugly cuts, oozing pus and partially clotted blood. So they had good tools, but had completely disregarded anything in the way of keeping things sterile.

Who would do this? Granted, there was a huge faction of people who openly hated and feared mutants, but Kitty still was having trouble grasping how people could turn on each other like this.

Warren stirred, moaning. "Shhh…you're okay," Kitty whispered, trying to calm him down before he inflicted any more damage on himself. They had wrapped him in a blanket before they brought him on the jet, in hopes that it might prevent him from going into shock, and it had helped, but he still had a high fever from his infected cuts, and was now trying to get out from under the blanket. "No, I'm sorry, I can't let you do that," Kitty said, entirely aware that in all likelihood Warren couldn't hear her. She tucked the blanket back underneath him, trying not to let it rub against the gashes on his back. Warren flinched when, despite Kitty's efforts, the fibers of the blanket got caught in the clotted blood, but when she finished and nothing else got caught, his breathing eased, and he stopped struggling. Kitty sighed in relief, and the rest of the flight passed uneventfully.

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They landed at the mansion, and Logan helped Kitty carry Warren down to the med bay. He would have done it himself, but Storm insisted that carrying an injured man like he was a sack of potatoes would not help the situation, and despite Logan's grumbling she got her way.

Warren was placed on one of the beds, and after he had been cleaned up Storm began a blood transfusion. Warren flinched slightly when she put the needle in, but except for that he was disconcertingly still. She disinfected the gashes and sutured them closed, figuring they would need some help. She then bandaged them up, covered Warren with a blanket, and left the room.

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That night, Logan was woken up by a sharp intake of breath. Storm had insisted that there be shifts, in case Warren woke up, and Logan had gotten stuck with the night shift. Not that much was happening; the kid had been unconscious for hours, so Logan had fallen asleep, figuring that if anything changed he would wake up.

He looked at the kid, who was now sitting up, looking around intently. He looked like he would fall over at any minute, but he had the same look in his eyes that Logan had seen in his own many times; the feral look, the one that would allow him to function on autopilot until his brain worked through what had happened. Warren's eyes roamed around the room, until he spotted Logan looking at him. He blinked a few times, sorting out who this person was and whether or not he was a threat, and, having determined that the Canadian was not, he continued in his examination of the room. Finding nothing else that posed a threat, he relaxed, the exhaustion he felt finally showing itself. He lay back down and was unconscious again in moments.


	6. An Unexpected Surprise

**Next chapter…There'll probably be one more after this, just to wrap things up, but after that I think that's it for this one. Unless anyone has any ideas…? **

**Again, I own nothing but the plot and the bad guys, and am getting paid nothing. It was the same thing for all the other chapters; why would it be different now?**

It was close to two days before Warren woke up again. Two days that, for the rest of the team, were filled with worry. Would he ever wake up? Was he going to be okay? Why were his wings gone? Who was responsible? When they found him, the building was abandoned, so they had no idea how he had even gotten there, which only pissed Logan off even more than he already was. He hated anyone who hated mutants on principle, and the person who had chained Warren up in the room certainly fit the category. He paced back and forth, until Ororo finally had to practically push him out of the room to get him to calm down.

A few hours later, Warren woke up in the medical bay, thoroughly confused. He quickly sat up, appraising the situation. There was no one in the room, so he swung his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. Bad idea. After years of getting used to the weight of the wings on his back, standing upright without them was surprisingly difficult. Of course, his recent capture certainly didn't make things any easier. He was still weak from blood loss, so his muscles didn't quite respond the way he was used to, causing him to lose his balance and fall to his knees. He swore, cursing Zarkov and his cruelty. He got back up, bracing himself against the bed while he adjusted to his new center of gravity. Once that was under control, he took a few cautious steps, and nearly fell again when Ororo entered the room, ruining his concentration. He swore again, and motioned her away as he carefully walked back to the bed and sat down. "You should be in bed, Warren, not walking around," she scolded. "And don't try to tell me you're all better," she added as he tried to speak. "You may have accelerated healing, but you've already ripped your stitches twice while having nightmares, and bled all over the sheets. You need to rest." As he was reminded for the second time since waking that his wings were gone, his face fell.

It was ironic, really; when he had them, all he wanted to do was get rid of them, but now that they were gone he would give anything to have them back. Part of him had hated them; hated how they made him feel, hated how they had made his father subconsciously delegate him to inferior, hated how his father could never look him in the eyes since they grew in because he knew that Warren knew how he felt. He had spent years hoping that they would go away, or that he would wake up one day and find that it had all been a dream, but it was not to be; they stayed, a constant reminder that he was an embarrassment to the Worthington name. But now that they were gone, he saw them as the gift they were; they had brought him more freedom than anyone could ever imagine, and he had taken it for granted, dwelling instead on what his father thought of him because of them. And now it was too late. He sighed, and Ororo, picking up on his sudden shift in mood, decided to leave him alone, informing him that she would be back in a few hours to check on the bandages and leaving the room.

Warren slept, more to escape his thoughts than because he needed the rest. His dreams were dark, rife with monsters and villains who trapped him and hurt him at every turn. He woke tangled in the bedsheets and disoriented, with a burning sensation in his back. He subconsciously itched, ripping the stitches for the third time before he realized what he was doing. He swore as the blood flowed, quickly soaking the sheets. He sat up as quickly as he could manage, and got out of bed, trying not to drip on the floor. Kitty Pryde entered the room, coming to a dead stop when she noticed the bright red sheets. "Warren, are you bleeding?" She asked, shocked at the sight of so much blood.

"Umm, yeah," he said. Kitty stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the puddles on the floor and watching the blood droplets roll down Warren's back and drip to the floor. Warren was starting to feel dizzy, and cursed the thoughtlessness that had put him in this situation. He snapped his fingers, bringing her back to reality. "Can you go and get someone? I kind of doubt I could make it down the hallway." Kitty broke out of her trance, nodded, and quickly left the room, bringing Storm back with her a few minutes later.

"Why do you insist on itching?" Storm asked, obviously irritated. "I told you not to touch it, and what do you do? First chance you get, you scratch it again, and now I have to sew it shut. Again. Honestly, Warren..."

Warren dutifully turned around while Storm got the needle and thread and began to sew shut the gash he had ripped open. But, upon inspection, the wound seemed like it was almost entirely healed, as did the one on the other side of his back. And, further piquing her interest, Ororo discovered that there was more musculature where the wings had been cut, and the bone was a little longer than it had been the last time she had looked. When she stopped closing the wound, Warren began to stretch his back, rolling his shoulders as if he had been sitting for a long time. "What are you doing?" Ororo asked, confused as to his actions. "My back burns," he said. "That's why I was itching earlier; ever since I woke up it's been bothering me, and I can't seem to make it stop." He reached back to itch again, and was surprised when he felt the musculature and bone growth Storm had observed moments earlier. "Oh," he said, stunned. "That would explain it."

"You didn't draw that conclusion yourself?" Kitty asked teasingly.

"No; it was worse the first time. Plus, there hasn't been much growth. When they first came in, they grew a lot faster, so it hurt a lot more; it'll probably speed up once they get a little bigger, and so it'll get worse. That explains why the cuts bled so easily when I was scratching, too; they were close to the surface, so all they needed was a little of my help to break through. That was a pain the first time too; I was scratching my back, and all of a sudden it just started bleeding, way more than what I would have thought was possible. Cleaning that up without my parents finding out was almost impossible." He grinned, remembering his James Bond-esque trip down the hall to get towels to sop up the blood. Of course, that had led to other, less pleasant memories, but at least he could find some amusement in the whole thing.

A few hours later Warren was in agony. The bones that made the structure of his wings were growing at an accelerated rate, resulting in an itching that quickly became full blown pain. He was lying on the bed in the med bay, his eyes closed, trying to think about anything other than what was happening. He was thrilled about it, sure; he had thought that he would never fly again, and now he was being given a second chance. But that didn't make the transition any more pleasant; no matter what he did, he couldn't get comfortable. His skin was on fire; it was stretching and growing to cover the muscles and bone that were quickly growing out of his back, and the painkillers Ororo had given him weren't helping. He bit his lip, trying to stifle the screams that threatened to pass through his lips. He had been brought up under the old belief that men don't cry, and consequently he detested any sign of weakness, especially in himself. Any contact his back made with anything, no matter how delicate, made him want to cry out in pain, so even the small contact he had with the sheets was pure torture.

At some point the pain became too much, and he lapsed into unconsciousness. When he woke again the pain had backed down to itching again. He reached back to check on the progress of his new wings, and was pleasantly surprised to find that all that was left was the feathers. They currently covered about half of his wings, and were quickly advancing. They were still the fluffy down of baby birds, but he knew that they would be real feathers soon enough. He was patient.

He looked around to find Kitty staring at him. He blushed, realizing that the only thing he was wearing was a pair of khaki pants. He sat up, quickly looking around for a shirt, or even a blanket for that matter. Kitty threw him a sweatshirt, one of the ones with an "x" stitched on the left side, smirking. He gave her a grateful look, and pulled it on, carefully pulling his wings through the holes someone had thoughtfully cut in it. "Thanks," he mumbled. She seemed to take great enjoyment out of his discomfort, more than he really felt was necessary.

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The next day, Warren's wings had reached their full size. There wasn't enough room in the med bay for him to stretch them fully, so he decided to go outside, since he wasn't ready to test them out quite yet. He grabbed a jacket, and snuck outside, being careful to avoid Storm. He knew that she would only drag him back to med bay, thinking there was no possible way he could be fully healed. It was funny; here it was, a school full of mutants, people who could turn to metal or walk through walls or control the weather or a million other things, and she still couldn't accept the extent of his mutation. He couldn't help but want to laugh whenever someone was amazed at some "new mutation" he showed. But really, it was all part of the same thing; if you had wings, you needed hollow bones so you would be light enough to use the wings. If you were going to be flying at high speeds, you needed something that would keep your eyes from disintegrating at those speeds. If you were going to be flying at high altitudes, you needed really good eyesight so you could see what was going on. If you were going to be able to fly, you needed an extremely fast metabolism so you could have the energy reserves necessary for flight, and you ended up with accelerated healing as a side effect. But people saw these things as separate mutations, which was amusing to Warren.

He successfully got outside, and immediately relaxed. When he was in the mansion, he always needed to remember to pull his wings in as close to his body as he could, or else he would end up blocking the entire hallway. While effective if he didn't want to talk to someone, this wasn't entirely helpful to anyone else. But outside, he didn't have to worry; he could stretch them out as much as he wanted, which was nice; they got cramped after a few hours of being held tight up against his back, which became excruciating if he didn't get the chance to stretch them out.

It was raining. Usually he avoided the rain, since it tended to soak his wings, which made them very heavy, and it would take hours for them to dry out, and he wouldn't be able to actually use them until they were completely dry. Well, not unless he wanted to test if gravity was still working. But today he didn't care. His wings were back, and he didn't mind the inconvenience he would be met with later.

He stretched his wings, extending them as far as they would go. He looked up to the sky, feeling the rain on his face, and gave a triumphant yell, releasing all the fear and pain and relief and joy that had built up within him over the past few days.


End file.
